


One for Sherlock

by naturegirlrocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BAMF John, M/M, One for the money, Sherlock is Stephanie Plum, Sherlock thinks John is a wanker, based on a book, based on a movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturegirlrocks/pseuds/naturegirlrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Book/Movie 'One For The Money' by Janet Evanovich. </p><p>Agent John Watson is accused of shooting an unarmed man. It is up to Sherlock to find him and find out why. Ten years ago Watson took Sherlock's virginity and left, but that isn't the point...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to have read the book to understand this story, but if you want to read the book there are major spoilers in here.
> 
> I'm in love the Stephanie Plum book series, and I thought it only appropriate for it to meet my love for Johnlock. 
> 
> (When it comes to the books I'm a big Stephanie/Ranger-shipper, but that doesn't work for this piece.)

'I have job for you'

Sherlock looked up from his mobile, and let go of a breath he didn't even remember holding. He had known that his big brother would come through for him eventually. 

Mycroft thought sentiment was a weakness, and he never failed to create distractions when there was a need to shield Sherlock from it. Sherlock hadn't even told his brother what happened yet. That did of course not mean that Mycroft was all over it. This time it had taken a little over four hours.

Four hours since Sherlock had found his, now former, boyfriend Viktor fucking a very female grad student over Sherlock's nice kitchen table. 

The first thought running through Sherlock's great mind had been concern for his experiments that was in danger of contamination. His second thought had been to pour his experiments over the rutting couple, but that would also result in contamination of the experiments, and some bad acid burns. Not that Sherlock in that moment would have minded neither much.

Victor hadn't been as adventurous with Sherlock as he clearly was with the female grad students. Sherlock had never been taken over a table.

"Don't you worry dearie," his landlady and family friend, Mrs. Hudson, had said after she pushed Victor out the door with the help of a sharp fire-poker, and more verbal abuse than a sweet old lady should use. "That scoundrel won't get back in this house again, I'll tell you that."

Sherlock stood up from his comfortable black leather chair. His legs felt a bit wobbly after sitting still so long, he took another deep breath. There was a case, and cases were all that really should matter. 

He arrived to Whitehall fifteen minutes later by cab. Sherlock felt focused. Viktor and his little tart were both shovelled into a dark closet of his mind palace were they could rut or rot as much as they pleased.

The guards at the door just gave him the familiar nods, and then moved out of the way as Sherlock passed in a swirl of coat tails. 

Mycroft's office was on the third floor so Sherlock moved towards the lifts. A pretty woman in a black dress was already inside the cabin when the doors slid open. 

"Anthea," Sherlock said in greeting as the lift started rising. 

"Sherlock," she answered with half a wicked smile that showed that both of them knew that wasn't even close to her real name. "Anything I can do for you?"

"There is a table in my kitchen."

"Gone." 

"Thank you."

Sherlock stepped out of the lift. Anthea was following him, rapidly pressing buttons on her phone. His kitchen would be free of that table long before he got back home. Too bad, it had been a nice table. 

Stepping into Mycroft's office was like travelling back a century in time, except for the five large computer screens, the three telephones, the big screen television and the hidden surveillance cameras. Mycroft himself was ever the image of the timeless British gentleman in his three piece suit and polished shoes. 

Sherlock sat down on one of the fancy chairs by the desk, and crossed his legs. Mycroft gave him a welcoming smirk. 

"Aren't you going to say it?" asked Sherlock. 

"Do you want me to say it?" asked his brother, raising an eyebrow. 

"No," Sherlock looked away, pouting. 

"I never liked him anyway," said Mycroft, and handed over a paper file to Sherlock. 

"You never like anybody," said Sherlock taking the file. 

"I like you," smirked his brother.

"That's your problem right there," smirked Sherlock back, and looked down on the file. "John Watson?"

"He's one of our best operatives. Been with us nearly fifteen years."

"I remember," Sherlock shifted. 

"I'm sure you do."

Sherlock had never worked with Watson, since their fields didn't really cross paths. Watson was a soldier and a medic, Sherlock was a chemist and a sleuth. They had sex once, ten years ago. 

It had been just days after a young and bright Sherlock first joined the British Intelligence, and just a few hours before Watson found out that Sherlock was Mycroft Holmes's very dear little brother. 

To add to that, Watson then also found out that Sherlock was only three months out of rehab, and was still recuperating from a long term cocaine addiction. 

Watson had dumped Sherlock quite quickly after those little discoveries.

Mycroft had sworn to Sherlock that he had done nothing to threaten Watson back then. It had clearly been a ordinary (though this time very guilt-ridden) one-night-stand for the man. 

No one ever needed to knew that one time with Watson had been Sherlock's virginity, nor that it had been the best sex he ever had since then. 

Though to be honest there hadn't been so much sex since then. Sex was a stupid distraction, just as the drugs had been, and it caused even more sore emotions. Victor, case in point. The man had fled to female grad students! Sherlock pushed away the burning thought. 

Watson on the other hand must have been getting plenty of action. The man had to have earned the nickname of 'Three-Continents' for something. Sherlock must apparently be a small part of Europe. All of this had been ten years ago. Sherlock had gotten over it since. Really he had.

"Am I going to partner up with him for the mission?" Sherlock frowned.

"He _is_ the mission," said Mycroft. "He's gone. You need to find him, and bring him back."

"Gone? As in 'gone rogue'?" Sherlock actually felt real surprise for the first time in a long while. "He is a multiple decorated agent! And a war hero."

Mycroft shrugged and showed the palms of his hands. 

"He killed a civilian."

"Who?"

"A man named Zane Bradley. A petty criminal, far below his usual targets. There are no police charges against Watson at the moment. But there was a witness telling that Watson shot the victim in cold blood."

"And then Watson ran," said Sherlock.

"He could have explained his actions," Mycroft shrugged. "He could have gotten off with a hard slap on the wrist, but he choose to run like a murderer. First and foremost we like to know why he choose to do that."

Sherlock was looking down at the photograph of the thirty-nine year old man. Slightly rounded features, dark blond hair, blue eyes. Homely, but attractive. Sweet, but sexy. Sherlock sighed. He couldn't catch a break.

"I'll find him," he said. 

"Good," Mycroft nodded, then he paused. "Are you eating supper with Mummy and me tonight?"

Mycroft was still living with their mother, even though his ripe age of forty-two.

"Will she shut up about Victor?"

"What do you think?"

"I'll be there by six o'clock," Sherlock stood up, placing Watson's file under his arm. 

"Good choice," smirked his brother. 

They gave each other a nod farewell, and Sherlock left the office. Outside the door stood Anthea, holding a couple of other case files. She smiled as he handed them over. 

"These are low-pri, compared to what you got there, but please take a look at them."

"I will," said Sherlock, placing the new files under his arm as well. 

He took the lift down to the second level basement where he shared office and research lab with a young pathologist. Molly wasn't there at the moment, though. She was probably in the mortuary, looking over the body of Zane Bradley. 

Leaving the case files in his locked desk drawer, Sherlock headed out to find Molly. He liked her, in a goofy-little-sister kind of way. Molly liked him, in a in-love-with-my-gay-friend kind of way. They got on quite well on that.

Molly wasn't in the morgue, but Bradley's body was on the slab, with a sheet up to his chin, so she couldn't be far away. Sherlock took a step closer to the body, and looked around. He wasn't supposed to touch anything in the morgue until given permission, Sherlock had been told this a multiple of times. 

He tried to lean forward, standing on his toes, peeking under the sheet. Maybe he just poked the fabric a little with his finger to reveal the black-edged gunshot-wound in the middle of the pale chest. He leaned closer, and the sheet mysteriously fell to the floor.

"Sherlock?" 

Sherlock stepped back, and smiled shamelessly towards Molly. She blushed, but still hurried forward to replace the sheet neatly over the chest, folding the edge as she was tucking the body in. 

"I see you already dug out the bullet," said Sherlock.

"I just dropped it of over at forensics," she nodded, and adjusted a lock of her red hair a behind her ear. "Do you want some coffee?"

"I thought you usually had coffee with Stanford," Sherlock looked thoughtfully down at the body. 

"Oh," Molly blushed again for seemingly no apparent reason. "Mike is going to the gym."

"Stanford?" Sherlock tried to imagine the chubby forensic scientist voluntarily getting on a treadmill. "Are you sure?"

"He had a gym bag," frowned Molly. "I passed him just now on his way to the garage."

Sherlock remembered hearing from somewhere that Watson and Stanford had done some medical training together a long time ago. It was possible that they still were friends. 

"Quick!" he dived for Molly's purse hanging on a close-by chair. "I need to borrow your car!"

"M-my car?" stammered Molly.

Sherlock had already rummaged her purse and gotten hold of her keys, they were attached to some flimsy, glittering, pink, ball of fur. He ran towards the garage. Mike wasn't going to the gym, he was going to leave supplies to Watson, Sherlock was sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

In the garage he immediately caught sight of Mike Stanford, loading a gym bag in the boot of a grey Volvo. Sherlock ducked down and sneaked over to Molly's car, a small sky-blue Mini Cooper. It was more than a little difficult folding his long limbs inside the little car unnoticed, but he succeeded. 

When Stanford left, Sherlock followed, keeping his distance. 

They drove east for about thirty minutes, leaving the city. It was clear that Stanford wasn't going to the gym. It was also clear that Stanford wasn't a trained field agent, since he did no moves to shake off possible pursuers. Sherlock wasn't really a field agent either, but at least he had some common sense to draw on. Plus, he was a genius.

Stanford drove his car into a closed off construction sight. Sherlock drove passed but stopped a bit further off. Getting out of the Mini, he could see Stanford walking up a fire staircase, carrying the gym bag. Sherlock sneaked closer and waited for five minutes until Stanford to came back out. 

He watched the Volvo drive away, and then he hurried up the stairs. There was a big room, some kind of future office space, full of construction material, paint buckets and large sheets of plastic. Sherlock moved slowly through the room, looking over the shadows for movements apart from wind. 

Suddenly a powerful force pushed Sherlock up against a wall, face first. His right arm was bent backwards and upwards in a painful angle. A hand pressed on the back of his head, crushing the side of his nose to the wall. The man holding him was shorter than him, but clearly stronger, and knew what he was doing. 

"Watson?" Sherlock gasped. "Watson!"

"Who are you?" grunted Watson, letting the grip on Sherlock's head become harder. 

"It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Holmes?" Watson immediately let him go and stepped back. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, obviously," Sherlock dusted off his suit, and gave Watson a glare. 

"They sent you after me?" laughed Watson.

"And pray tell me why that is so funny?" 

"Sugar," smirked Watson. "You have no gun, no handcuffs, no backup, and no chance in hell."

"Don't call me 'sugar'," hissed Sherlock. "And I'm perfectly capable to take you in."

"I remember," Watson winked and hiked the gym bag over his shoulder. "It might have been ten years, but I remember the good ones."

"How dare you..." 

"How dare I? _I?_ " Watson pushed Sherlock against the wall again, pressing his lower arm to Sherlock's neck. "As I heard it, it was based on your research that my unit was sent to Afghanistan. Your information that led us into an ambush. I got shot! I was millimetres from death, or being invalid."

"They didn't use my research," coughed Sherlock. 

"What?" Watson's grip loosened a little.

"Your superiors, they didn't believe all my results. They thought my methods were... 'mumbo-jumbo' they said. 'Guessing at best', they said," Sherlock spat in anger over this memory. "If they had listened to me the mission would have been a success."

Watson's eyes moved rapidly in thought for a second. 

"Fine," Watson let go of him. "You are off the hook. Now get away. I have important work to do."

Watson took hold of the bag again and headed for an exit. Sherlock followed. 

"You need to come with me!"

"Bugger off!"

Watson walked through a door marked 'exit'. They got out at the other end of the building. There was a old black Audi parked by the door. Watson threw the bag in the boot of the car.

"Fine!" Sherlock huffed. "I'll just follow you then."

"No, you are not!"

"Try to stop me!" Sherlock hugged Molly's keys tightly in his fist.

"Cute," Watson noticed the pink, furry, keychain. 

Sherlock huffed. Watson rolled his eyes and sighed. They looked at each other for a moment. Sherlock set his jaw. Watson suddenly softened. 

"You know, Sherlock," he said taking a step closer. "I didn't lie back there. I do remember our night together. It was very memorable. You were very handsome back then, but, you know, these ten years has made you absolutely drop dead gorgeous... I know, because I have been watching you..."

Watson traced Sherlock's row of shirt buttons with his finger, and moved even closer as he spoke. Sherlock's back was pressed against a skip. Watson moved closer, letting his lips hover close to Sherlock's pulse point. Their bodies were pressed tightly together. 

"I- I..." Sherlock stammered as his body betrayed him, feeling the hot breath against his skin, wanting, needing. 

The next moment Watson had taken Molly's keys from Sherlock's hand and thrown them into the skip. 

"There," he smirked and stepped back. "You won't be following me now."

"Hey!" Sherlock looked over his shoulder to were the keys had fallen. 

"Nice seeing you, Sugar," Watson grinned and jumped into his Audi. 

He waived a hand out the window as he drove away. Sherlock threw a small stone from the ground after the car, it barely graced the paint. 

"Wanker!" screamed Sherlock after him. 

The skip was full of garbage and broken building materials. Thankfully, Sherlock was able to deduce a grid pattern for his search, based on the angle of Watson's movement and the sound the keys had made. His clothes were still ruined as he emerged with his prize in hand. 

The bitter drive back to Whitehall had to be made with all the windows open. 

Anthea was sitting cross legged on his desk talking to Molly as Sherlock entered the office. Both the women frowned at the smell of him. Sherlock threw the keys on Molly's desk. She stared at some strange dusty gooey substance attached to the pink fur.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Got a lead on Watson," Sherlock opened the locker where he kept his lab coats, some of his more frequently used disguises, and a shower bag. 

"Did you find anything out?" asked Anthea. 

"He's a wanker," muttered Sherlock.

"I'll add that to his personal file then," she snickered.

"Mike Stanford is helping him, but Watson won't call on him again. He has a car, but it is probably already dumped. He has new clothes, and he's armed..." 

"That's helpful." 

"I'm just going to shower and change," said Sherlock leaving the office. "Then I'm going to get him."

"I've called Lestrade for you," Anthea called after him. "He has the police report of the shooting. Visit him at the Yard before you go galavanting around London like a bloodhound on stilts!"

Sherlock huffed at the simile, but gave her a nod. Typical, now he had to face Lestade as well. He headed to the shower room.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade was one of Sherlock's few personal friends. He was a MI5 agent who's mission it was to make a good longterm career within the Scotland Yard. He was now a Detective Inspector. He was also unbelievingly hot, with silvering hair and a sexy attitude. 

Lestrade had been the one who taught Sherlock how to shoot a gun. That experience had been more intimate than necessary. They had been dating very briefly a few years back, but had quickly found out they were better friends than boyfriends. That didn't stop Lestrade from being damn flirtatious. Sherlock had accepted it as a natural part of his friend. 

Sherlock was sure Lestrade also could have gotten a nickname like 'Three-Continents' if he wanted to. Thankfully the DI stayed within British borders, and was a bit more moderate in his choices of partners. 

All showered and dressed, Sherlock gathered his mission files from the drawer, and placed them in a leather shoulder bag. He hesitated for a moment, but placed his never-used-in-service gun in the bag as well. Then he took a cab to Scotland Yard.

The Yarders knew him as a Consulting Detective, and sometimes as a expert whiteness. Though it was preferred to never let Sherlock near a real witness stand because he had a tendency to aggravate solicitors, prosecutors, judges, and jurors alike. Sherlock called it 'telling the sworn truth', but nobody cared. 

He found Lestrade in a briefing room on the third floor. The officers were going over a case of repeated breaking-and-enterings in high class homes. There were several pictures of the crime scenes on the wall. Sherlock leaned against the door, listening. Lestrade caught his eye and gave him a wink. 

"Can we help you Mr. Holmes?" asked the Superintendent holding the briefing irritably. 

"No," said Sherlock. "But you can help yourselves by asking the third homeowner why he had a unlocked window in his gallery. And then you can ask him why he built a false wall only two days before the first robbery."

The Superintendent starred at Sherlock, then to the pictures, and then back to Sherlock again. A vain was thumping in his forehead. 

"I'll take care of him, sir," said Lestrade, quickly getting up from his chair and taking hold of Sherlock. "He's here to see me anyway."

Lestrade dragged Sherlock to his office and closed the door behind them. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the desk. 

"Ease up a little, Shirley," said Lestrade moving over to a locked file cabinet. "The stick in your arse look further up today than ordinary." 

"I threw out Victor," Sherlock rubbed his face. "And then Watson tricked me."

"You seem to be more upset about the latter," mused Lestrade taking out a file from the cabinet, and placing it on the desk. "Your copy."

"He's a wanker," said Sherlock.

"Victor or Watson?"

"Both," Sherlock sighed and took the file, there were several photographs inside of the body and of the scene. "Give me the basics."

"Fine," Lestrade sat down in his chair, leaning back, looking slightly irresistible. "Watson was off duty, so much of duty you can be in our line of work anyway. He went to visit Zane Bradley, reason unknown. There was a fight and shots were fired. A neighbour says he saw Watson shoot. Bradley was completely unarmed, no weapons on his person or in the flat. Not even a cricket bat."

"What about the girlfriend?"

"What girlfriend?"

"Zane Bradley's girlfriend. It's obvious he has one. Look a these pillows, no straight single man arranges his pillows like that." 

Sherlock held up a photograph of a very unmade bed in a dirty bedroom. It was clear as day what he meant. Lestrade squinted at the image. 

"She's about a decimetre shorter than him," said Sherlock searching the pictures for clues of the girlfriend. "Owns a feather boa, she uses high heals regularly." 

"I'll take your word for it, mate," Lestrade mused. "Actually..." he said thoughtfully. "Now when you are... I think I heard something..."

He reached for his laptop, and slowly typed in a few words, using only the tips of his forefingers to hit the keys. Sherlock smirked a little, computers really wasn't Lesteade's thing. 

"Ah, yes! There is a woman reported missing from the same area, that might fit the bill. A stripper, Carmen Roberts. Missing for three days. A colleague of hers reported it. And here... Ah! Yes. They interviewed her boyfriend. It's Zane Bradley." 

"Print it out for me," Sherlock looked at the screen. "She worked at 'Lace and Leather'?"

"It's a S-and-M-club," grinned Lestrade. "It means Sado-Masochism."

"I know what it means," Sherlock rose and took the papers coming out from the printer. 

"Yeah, I forgot. You own a riding crop."

"Shut up, you pervert."

"It's officially just a strip and kink club," Lestrade looked back at his computer. "There is no soliciting going on, apparently. If any of the staff choose to have sex with the customers they are in their own."

"Huh," said Sherlock.

"They are legit," Lestrade shrugged. "All permits are cleared and up to date. No suspicions or investigations attached to the place, except for Carmen's disappearance."

Sherlock placed the police report and Carmen's papers in his shoulder bag. Lestrade looked him over. The wrinkles around his eyes softened, a clear warning that he was going to be in a kind and understanding mood for a moment.

"How are you, really?" 

"I'm fine," Sherlock tensed. "I'm on the case."

"You know you can talk to me," he placed his hand on Sherlock's upper arm. "About Victor, about anything. Just call me."

"I'll bare that in mind."

Sherlock gave his friend a quick nod, and the left Lestrade's office, and then the Yard entirely to escape any further unwelcome emotional conversations.


	4. Chapter 4

He looked at the time, it was about four pm. There was a choice between going to Watson's flat, or to the 'Lace and Leather'. Basing his decision on proximity, Sherlock chose the club, and hailed a cab.

The cabbie gave Sherlock a look and a smirk as he was told the address. It was a well known club then. 

It was situated a few short blocks away from the East End. The red and black posters outside showed decorative outlines of both men and women in suggestive, but not overly erotic, poses. It actually seemed a bit classy. At least it wasn't a place where your average street pervert would go to get recreationally scolded. The occasional repressed politician would certainly be attracted to the place. 

Sherlock didn't even need to get within a speculative range of two metres from the doors before a smiling usher was convincing him to come inside. 

"A little slap and tickle, gov?" asked the man, who obviously was more a fan of the tickle option.

"Don't mind if I do." 

Sherlock gave the man one of his better standard appreciation smiles as a test. The usher did a small unconscious recoil, but kept smiling. The man liked his tickles strictly female.

The main floor of the club looked like the secret lovechild between a Victorian strip club and a torture chamber that served alcoholic beverages. Sherlock found the setup quite fascinating from a decorative point of view.

Since it was still quite early on a weekday, there wasn't many customers. A group of five businessmen were watching a very graceful woman dressed as a sexy angel slow dance around a pole. In the corner a man in a suit was being spoon-fed by a male baby-doll character. 

Sherlock caught sight of a dark haired woman wearing a black lace robe and not much more, sitting at the bar. She was sneaking cautious looks at the bartender and the liquor shelves, even though the drink before her was almost full. Her luscious red lips smiled as Sherlock approached. 

"Can I buy you a drink that is not cold tea?" Sherlock asked in a low whisper.

"Please," said the woman with a purr. "Whiskey sour."

He guessed that she was a kind of an dominatrix. Sherlock didn't have any good enough research on different sexual deviations to know for sure. In other words, that particular room in his mind palace was sparsely furnished.

Sherlock ordered the drink from the bartender. The woman moved over to a sofa by the wall on her high heels. She was wearing dark green silk panties and bra under the lace robe. 

"I'm looking for a woman," said Sherlock, placing the drink before her, and sitting himself down beside her. 

"Well you found one," she gently touched his left cheekbone, her catlike eyes fixed on his. 

Sherlock actually felt a bit attracted to her, something no woman ever had achieved before. Perhaps it was her intense aloofness and studied movements that made her so difficult to read. A living oxymoron, both soft and hard at the same time. She was obviously a expert at her job. 

"I'm looking for a special girl," Sherlock retrieved the printout of Carmen's face from his bag. "Have you seen her?"

The woman's eyes glanced over the picture and then to the official Scotland Yard logo in the right top corner of the paper. She took a non-rehearsed breath. 

"Are you police?"

"Private investigator," said Sherlock and handed her his fake business card. "But I'm coopering with them."

"Finally someone cares about Carmen," she looked genuinely happy as she tucked the card to the side of her left breast. "I was the one reporting her missing. Irene Adler."

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock taking her offered hand. "So you haven't seen her?"

"Not for over three days," she shook her head, and took a big swig of her drink to calm her sudden nerves. "I heard her boyfriend was killed."

"Yes, I'm looking into that as well," nodded Sherlock putting the printout back in the bag, and exchanged it for a picture of Watson. "Have you seen this man?"

"He's really cute," she smiled. "But no."

Sherlock looked at the picture himself before putting it back in the file. Sure, Watson could be described as 'cute', to people who didn't know he was a wanker.

"Did Carmen have any outside customers?" he asked, giving a inclination that he knew about how deals for sex were made. "Anyone who stands out?"

"Well she did have one..." Irene bit her lower lip, looking down. 

"You don't like him."

"He got violent a few times," she glanced over to the bar were the bartender was looking at them, and lowered her voice. "He's barred from the club now, but I know he still met up with Carmen outside hours. She said he paid really good."

"Who is he?"

"Seb Moran," Irene whispered the name like Sherlock should recognise it, he shook his head. "He's a boxer, a prizefighter."

"You know where I can find him?"

"Try the Fennstreet Gym," she emptied her glass. "Look. I can't really talk anymore like this, my boss is watching, and I charge by the hour." 

"Thank you," said Sherlock holding out a ten pound note to her. 

"Not even close to my regular rate," Irene placed the note in her cleavage none the less. "But gorgeous men can get a discount if they show promise to be bad boys."

She stroked a soft knuckle under his chin. Her working girl attitude had returned.

"Not my area," said Sherlock with a honest smile. 

"I noticed," she smirked. "But I've bent many bent boys over my knee as well. You'll be surprised."

"Since you obviously prefer women I should be," said Sherlock. "But I'm not."

"Want to try it out?"

"Have to work," Sherlock got up. 

"Be careful," Irene gave him a genuinely worried smile. "Moran can be really dangerous."

"Thank you."

Sherlock left the club. The time was almost half passed five. One and a half hour before he had to be at Mummy's for supper. There was still time to go by the gym and take a quick look at Moran.


	5. Chapter 5

The cabbie picking him up outside the club gave him a knowing smile, Sherlock ignored him. 

The Feenstreet Gym was strictly a rough boxing gym. There were sandbags hanging from the ceiling, several square training-rings, there was even a steel cage for more savage fights. It was nothing like the gymnasium Sherlock had learned to fight in.

The place smelled of sweat, adrenaline, and of men. Sherlock took a curious breath through his nose and wondered if the scent could be synthesised. 

A thin man in in his thirties, wearing tailored trousers, and silk shirtsleeves folded up over his upper arms stood by one of the rings shouting advise to one of the fighters. He looked towards Sherlock as he entered.

"Are you lost?" he grinned in a clear Irish voice.

"Just looking for someone."

"Thought so," the Irishman came up to him. "You don't look like a boxer."

"I was a lightweight champion at uni actually," said Sherlock looking up to the two fighters in the ring, clearly out of his weight class. "But I was really more into fencing."

"A sport of gentlemen," laughed the man and held out his hand. "James Moriarty, I own the gym. I also manage some of the boys."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock shook the outstretched hand. "Private investigator."

Sherlock gave him his card.

"Fancy title. Who're you looking for?"

"Seb Moran."

"He's one of mine alright," Moriarty looked worried. "Over there."

He pointed to the steel cage were a big man was currently taking a rightful beating from an even bigger man. Sherlock guessed that the bigger man was Moran. 

"He's not in any trouble is he?"

"No," Sherlock winced a little when Moran hit the other guy in the gut. "I'm looking in to the disappearance of a woman named Carmen Roberts. Moran was apparently a regular client of hers."

"So you heard about the beating," it wasn't a question.

"Yeah."

"Look,"Moriarty sighed, rubbing a tiredhand over his forehead. "Seb's a rough guy, sure he can get a little violent sometimes. But that's what's makes him a great fighter. I payed Carmen off, I freely admit to that. And I covered for all her medical bills as well. But I swear we have nothing to do with her disappearance."

"I understand," Sherlock immediately felt he was on to something good, but just smiled understandingly. "Is it all right if I talk to him for a moment?"

"Go ahead," Moriarty nodded. "I have to dash though. Meeting on town. Nice to meet you."

"And you."

He watched as Moriarty grabbed a nice suit jacket from a hanger and left, a little too quickly. Sherlock turned to the cage from where the smaller big guy was just limping out. Moran stood still, adjusting the bloodstained tape on his hands. 

"Excuse me, Mr Moran?" asked Sherlock. "May I ask you...?"

"Are you here to fight?" grunted Moran.

"No, no," Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced to Moran's former opponent leaning against the far wall. "I just have some questions about Carmen Roberts..."

"Step into my office," Moran held open his arms to the cage, there was a tattoo of a sabre-tooth tiger over his left pectoral muscle.

"Oh! Yes. Hum... Right," Sherlock hesitatingly stepped up into the cage, which was not a good idea when he thought about it. "I really just want to talk, though..."

"Are you accusing me of something?"

This was clearly not the sharpest tool in the box. Sherlock jumped a little when Moran closed the cage door. This was definitely not a good idea. 

"No, not at all," Sherlock raised the shoulder bag as a shield before him. 

His eyes rummaged over Moran's body. Old injury, left knee. Possible sore rib. Swelling on right eye, sight slightly impaired... Move low and fast, aim for the knees. 

"What are you looking at, fag?" Moran was moving in on him.

"Now, there is no call for..." 

Sherlock suddenly got violently pushed back into the steel bares. He hit Moran with his bag as a distraction, setting to a new leg stance to make his move. The next moment a shoot was fired and mirror was shattered, and then another one. 

Moran turned, Sherlock saw an opportunity and swung the bag once more against the boxer, who toppled over. The confusion let Sherlock slip passed, and he made it to the cage door. He kept on running out through a backdoor of the gym and down a corridor. 

There he crashed right into Watson, who began screaming at him. 

"Fucking hell! Are you mad? You are absolutely bonkers! The guy has an assault rep longer than your fucking arm, and you go into the fucking cage with him?!"

"I had it under control," huffed Sherlock. 

"You hit him with your fucking bag! Like a schoolgirl!"

"That's your opinion," Sherlock pulled out his gun and pointed it on Watson. "Now, you are coming with me."

"You have a gun?" Watson rolled his eyes. "You have a gun and you hit him with your bag? Give me that."

Watson grabbed the gun easily from Sherlock's hand, and pocketed it. He shook his head and then began to leave.

"Hey!" Sherlock yelled, and took hold of his arm. "You give me something to go on, you owe me!"

"Owe you?"

"You made me dig through a skip! It was disgusting. My shoes were ruined."

"Oh, I'll give you something," Watson stepped closer to him with a predatory look.

"Something I can use, you wanker!" Sherlock pushed Watson in the chest. 

"Fine," Watson sighed. "Fine. You'll get one question. One!" He held up one finger.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. There were so many logical questions, and several things he wanted to know.

"Fine," he said. "Who is Carmen?"

"Carmen is a source," Watson sighed. "I promised her she would be safe, now she's gone. I was staking out the gym so I could follow Moran. But then you came along and I had to blow my cover."

"I would have been fine," Sherlock stretched to his full hight, which was a head over Watson. "I do work for MI5."

"You're a lab-rat!"

Sherlock was about to retort that he actually did plenty of fieldwork, but there was some noise and high voices coming from the gym. Both Sherlock and Watson had to run again. 

Out on the street Watson flagged down a cab for Sherlock. He even held the door open for him.

"You didn't ask me if I was guilty."

"That's not for me to decide," smirked Sherlock as he got in to the cab. 

"Until next time, Sugar." Watson smiled and closed the door. 

Sherlock leaned back and sighed. What was he doing? This was the second time he let Watson go. He sighed again, and gave the cabby Mummy's address. He was going to be late for supper.


	6. Chapter 6

He arrived twelve minutes late to Mummy's townhouse, which was a terrible faux pas, and would only be allowed if you were dead, or possibly dying. 

"You are late," said Mummy. "I thought you were dead. Christophe's food is ruined because of you. I hope you are proud if yourself!"

"Christophe?" asked Sherlock with a sudden growing terror. "Mummy, you haven't..."

"What, sweetheart?" 

"I threw Victor out just this morning!" Sherlock rubbed his face. "I'm not ready to be set up."

"Sherlock, you need to get back on the horse."

"Mummy, I've been single for less than nine hours!"

His mother was clearly not listening and was now moving to the kitchen to collect Christophe. 

Sherlock entered the dining room where Mycroft already was seated at the end of the table, reading a classified report. He looked up as Sherlock entered.

"Sorry," he said, placing the report under himself on the seat of the chair, and sitting down. "Mummy insisted, and he is a award-winning professional chef. He owns the Garland Restaurant on..."

"You prioritise your stomach before your own brother? I thought you said you liked me?"

Mycroft just smirked. 

"How's your manhunt going?"

"I nearly got mauled by the victim's girlfriend's client," said Sherlock, sitting down at the table. "But I hit him with my bag. And then Watson told me I looked like a schoolgirl."

"Well, as long as you are getting headway."

Christophe was really an excellent cook, not that Sherlock ever had been a fan of eating. The man himself was average looking, even shorter than Watson, had slicked, brown, long hair in a ponytail, and had obvious disillusions of grandeur. He was also flirting.

"So private investigating," he winked at Sherlock. "That sounds exciting."

"Sometimes," said Sherlock, concentrating mostly on the wine.

"I bet you get many cheating spouses. Take a lot of candid sexy pictures."

"Yes, some," Sherlock glared at Mycroft, since he couldn't glare at Mummy.

Mycroft just shrugged and reached for seconds. Sherlock reached for more wine.

"Do you have a case now?" their mother hurried to ask to avoid the awkward moment.

Sherlock was glad that his cover story for once wasn't completely made up. He so hated lying to his mother. 

Mummy thought that Sherlock's work for the MI5 was strictly indoor lab work, and that the private investigating was a enjoyable hobby that he used as a cover. Just as she believed that Mycroft only held a minor position in the British government.

"I'm looking for a missing woman called Carmen Roberts, she disappeared about three days ago."

"Oh! I've actually heard about that," said Christophe. 

"You have?" Sherlock gave the man his full attention for the first time. 

Apparently the look suited him quite well because Christophe suddenly looked totally smitten with him. Sherlock folded this information away for later. 

"A few days ago a waiter at my restaurant said he had a friend, Zane something, whose girlfriend had gone missing. And now today he told me that his friend got shot dead. He thought that it could be something gambling related." 

"Zane was a gambler?" Sherlock suddenly saw a new connection leading to Moran, the prizefighter.

He wondered what kind of information Carmen had been giving Watson. Illegal gambling was really a case for the police, not for the MI5. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and noticed that his brother was having the same thought.

The rest of the evening was quite boring, though the new information had given Sherlock good temporary distraction. 

Sherlock accepted Chistophe's offer of driving him home, but declined any other further request of keeping him company for the night. He was not as desperate as his mother thought he was.


	7. Chapter 7

His nice kitchen table was gone and in its place stood a plain white laminated table on metal legs. Great for experiments, bad for shagging.

Sherlock took up his violin and played while letting himself think through the busy day's events. When his thoughts reached the memory of Watson telling him that their night ten years ago had been memorable he stopped playing. 

He couldn't deny that he had thought of that night as well, and not just because it had been his first time, nor that he had been a part of Europe, nor that Watson didn't like commitment and had obviously been scared of Mycroft. Sometimes he just thought of the night as just a good night. 

His phone rang, and Sherlock looked at the time. Ten minutes passed eleven, no one he knew would call this late if it wasn't an emergency. But there was no caller-ID.

"Hello?"

"You better back off," said a rough male voice. "If you know what's good for you."

"Pardon?"

"A guy like you could get him seriously _fucked up_ if he keeps asking questions he has no business in asking."

"Mr Moran?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Was that innuendo really necessary?" 

"Listen you faggot! Back off or you will get your own fucking cock shoved up your own fucking arse!"

"Pretty detailed imagery there, Mr Moran. Are you sure you are not compensating for something?"

"Listen you fucker...!"

"Dull," Sherlock hang up the phone. 

He smiled to himself. He was getting on the right track. Putting his violin under his chin again he played a more happier tune. 

The night had been boring and long. Sherlock had gone over the other case files that Anthea had given him. They were defiantly low priority, and Sherlock wouldn't even have looked at them if they had been given to him while he was distracted. He had no doubt Anthea knew this, and had sneaked the cases on him. That woman was pure evil.

Each of the cases where so called 'red flags'. People who had behaved suspiciously in some way beyond ordinary police interest, and needed a more closer checkup to see that they were not potential threats to the nation. 

Sherlock had gotten several of these dull cases before. He was made to meet and evaluate them, maybe take some samples, and then write boring reports telling that the person was a good citizen, and didn't need to be taken in for further investigation. 

It was very likely he was given these cases because he was actually good at it. So far he had identified one bank robber, two undercover reporters, one blackmailer, and one man who was planning to shot the PM. He had also identified dozens of nutters, perverts, cheaters, confused seniors, tourists, and a lot of very dull people. 

He managed to sleep two hours before dawn, but he had too many thoughts in his head to relax. 

Early the next morning he called and woke up Lestrade. He needed to look at Watson's apartment. If Watson was involved in gambling there would be traces there. Signs that he was living above his means, receipts, booking talons. Sherlock had Lestrade meet him there. 

"Tell me why I'm here again," yawned Lestrade into a paper coffee cup. 

"Because I need a lookout," said Sherlock picking the lock of Watson's apartment. "Your presence also makes this a little less illegal."

"Not a hell of a lot less," Lestrade sighed. "You're lucky we are on the same team."

Sherlock opened the door. At first sight there was nothing that would tell that Watson was a gambler. At second sight there was still nothing. 

It was a dreary one-room apartment with a small kitchenette and miniature shower. The only furniture was a neatly made single bed, a chest of drawers, a plywood desk, and a old office chair. The china in the cupboards were old and used. The food in the refrigerator was simple, mainly of sandwich materials. 

There was a laptop on the desk, about five years old, possibly second hand. Sherlock put it in his shoulder-bag to examine later. 

The clothes in the built-in-wardrobes told of simple tastes and comfort. There was a fancy, and expensive, suit in a moth-bag, but it was clearly only used in case of rare necessities. 

"If he's a gambler," said Sherlock to Lesteade. "He is on a real loosing streak."

"I live better than this," nodded Lestrade from the door. "What does he do with his money?"

"He's saving it," Sherlock had found a notebook in the chest of drawers, it was full of economic calculations, notes and lists. "Going by this, he hopes to open up a small GP-practice when he can afford to retire early from the service. There's no trace of any extra cash flow though."

"Doesn't seem like the type of guy who should shoot a smalltime bad guy in cold blood," said Lestrade. 

Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he looked over the notes, it was actually quite endearing. Watson had a dream and he was working hard and honest to save up for it. He placed the notebook in his bag as well, and looked around the room one last time.

"Huh," Lestrade exclaimed as if he had struck gold.

"What?" Sherlock asked. 

"I think the good doctor has a little vice after all."

Lesteade held up motorcycle helmet from the floor. There was a set of keys inside it. He grinned at Sherlock, who really didn't see the importance of the helmet, expect that it meant that Watson owned a motorcycle. 

"Garage?" asked Lestrade with a sigh.

"Underground," answered Sherlock. "How is this a vice?"

"Sherlock, my dear friend," smiled Lestrade holding up the keys between his right thumb and forefinger. "You are a genius, but in some areas you are quite daft."


	8. Chapter 8

They left the dreary apartment and took the lift down to the garage. Lestrade looked around and then pointed over to a motorcycle covered with a fitted tarp. 

"Tell me what it says to you," he said, pulling the tarp off. "My, that is a beauty." 

Sherlock felt a little peeved that they had stumbled upon something that Lestrade was more knowledgeable about than him. He had never been into vehicles, not even as a boy. He had learned to drive only because no one with a licence had wanted to aid him in his tyre-track experiments.

Sherlock looked the bike over, using his logic and deductive skills instead of his lacking knowledge. 

"Though it's not my area..." he gave his friend a short glare. "I can tell this is a classic model. It's regularly cleaned. Rebuilt. All original parts, but some scavenged from other bikes. The engine has been taken apart several times. This part here..."

"The oil feed pipe," Lestrade obliged helpfully.

"...is the most recent purchase." 

"Watson loves this bike," mused Lestrade. "He puts money on it even if he needs to save. That's a vice."

"Right," Sherlock stretched and held out his hand for the helmet. "I'm taking it."

"Taking it what?" 

"Hostage."

"Right," Lestrade handed him the helmet. "You can drive this thing, right?"

"Sure," Sherlock winced as he pulled the tight padded helmet over his head and sensitive hair. 

"Sure..." smirked Lestrade. "Well I didn't see any of this. I wasn't here." His phone rang and he answered. "Lestrade. Oh? Not again? Where?"

It was obviously from the Yard dispatch, because Lestrade got his serious face on.

Sherlock threw his left leg over the bike and sat down, identifying the dials and controls before him. It didn't look too different from the moped he had learned on as a teen. 

"I'll handle it," said Lestrade, hung up, and turned back to Sherlock. "So you are just going to cruise round London until he sees you?" 

"I have some errands," said Sherlock, and turned on the ignition. "Saves the cab fair."

"Don't get killed," Lestrade patted his back. "Meanwhile, I'm going to collect Mr Wandermer from the National Museum and drive him home."

"I got a red flag with that name," said Sherlock pushing up the visor. "Seventy-eight years old. He threatened a Palace guard."

"I'm not surprised," sighed Lestrade rubbing his tense neck. "He has a fondness of taking of his clothes in public buildings, and it usually disturbs the guards. It was only a matter of time before he came on to your grid." 

"Why do they call you? That's clearly not your job."

"He streaked the Yard once, I caught him, and tried to talk to him. Now he likes me and mentions my name every time he gets in trouble. What can I say? I'm a likeable guy." 

"Anthea omitted that fact in her file..." Sherlock was irritated. "If I known I wouldn't even bother, just given it to you."

"Very kind. Maybe she just felt you needed a laugh?"

"I fail to see how doing pointless cases are funny."

"Because sometimes pointlessness is funny," shrugged Lestrade.

"I'll take care of it" sighed Sherlock turning on the engine so that it roared.

"On the bike?" Lestrade called over the noise. "You realise that he will be naked, don't you?"

"That's his problem," huffed Sherlock.

It took a few minutes before he found the right balance of the throttle, but then the ride was quite enjoyable. Sherlock really should get one of these for himself.

He arrived at the National Museum twenty minutes later. The lady at the information desk looked really relived when he told her he had come to pick Mr. Wandermer up.

Mr Wandermer himself didn't look as happy. A blue blanket was tightly wrapped around him, but his bare, pale, thin legs and feet were very visible. 

"Where's Greg?" he asked with a suspicious look at Sherlock. 

"He was busy." 

Sherlock had already assessed the elderly man completely harmless from a government point of view. His relaxed attitude toward nakedness wasn't meant to be provoking or exibitionistic, it was just a very relaxed attitude. Sherlock managed to made him put his coat back on, but the rest if the clothes stayed off. The old man's eyes lit up when he saw the motorbike. 

"What's your name?" 

"Mycroft Holmes," said Sherlock and pressed the helmet over the old man's balding head. 

They had come about halfway to Mr Wandermer's home, when they stopped for a red light at a pedestrian crossing. Suddenly, one of the pedestrians, a man in a cap and upturned hoody, came right for them. Sherlock smiled, it seemed that his day was looking up.

"What the bleeding fuck?!" screamed John Watson. 

"Oh! Hello. How nice to see you again." 

"That's my fucking bike!" Watson pointed.

"I'm just taking Mr. Wandermer for a ride home," said Sherlock, giving Watson a 'trust me I'm a professional'-smile. 

Watson redirected his angry eyes to the thin figure behind Sherlock, wearing a helmet, a coat, and nothing else, on the pillion. 

"Is he naked?" 

"It's quite naturalistic," said Sherlock. 

"Not on my bike it isn't!"

"Double negative is approval. Sorry, green light. Got to dash. Please don't hold up traffic!" 

Sherlock left with Warson's curses in his ears. He was laughing the rest of the way. Maybe Anthea wasn't so bad after all.


	9. Chapter 9

After letting Mr Wandermer off, and getting a eyeful of an impressively sized wrinkly scrotum, Sherlock texted Anthea his report. It wasn't standard procedure paperwork, but he really couldn't be bothered anymore. Anyway, he now had a plan for bringing out Watson. 

He started by going back to the 'Leather and Lace'. It was only early afternoon but the club seemed to be open. People needed their kicks and kinks at all hours apparently. 

Irene was at the bar, drinking creamy coffee from a tall glass, and reading the Morning Times . She was wearing a tight black bodice and high leather boots. A riding crop was peaking up from her right boot shaft. 

"Hello there, handsome" she purred. "Have you found anything out about Carmen?"

"Sorry, no," Sherlock sat down beside her.

"Then did you change your mind about me putting you over my knee?"

"Unfortunately, no," Sherlock gestured to the bartender. "Coffee, black, four sugars."

"Sweet tooth?" Irene asked.

"Keeps me going," said Sherlock. "Have you heard anything?"

"Nothing. And nothing on your cute friend either. Though I know Seb Moran is really angry with you."

She looked on as Sherlock got his coffee, and then gave him a flirtatious smile. 

"You know, I'm giving away information for free here. Next time you have to give me something in return."

"What do you want?"

"Surprise me, cheekbones," her red lips curved around the edge of her glass, and she licked away some cream. 

Sherlock finished his coffee. It wasn't that big of a cup. The bartender obviously had it in for him. He smiled at Irene, and left.

He parked the bike on Baker Street, just to the side of the front door. He then removed the spark plug from the engine - he had googled it. Then he hid across the street in a nicely concealed doorway with a good view. 

Three hours later it was raining. Sherlock was soaked to the bone and sitting on the ground. It was too wet to go over any of the things in his shoulder bag, or to use his phone. He was more bored than he'd ever been in his life, even more bored than that time he first thought cocaine was a good idea, and that had really been bored.

The only thing that had happened to the motorbike during that time was that Mrs Hudson had looked at it, shook her head, rolled her eyes, and then said Sherlock's name to the heavens. He didn't actually hear her, but he read her lips. 

He got a text from Mycroft asking if he would join for supper. Sherlock answered him no, and if there where any potential boyfriends present brought home by Mummy then Mycroft was happy to try them on for himself. 

Just about when Sherlock was about to give up, or just kill himself, there was someone approaching the bike. 

It was Mike Stanford again. Sherlock obviously misjudged how desperate Watson would become. The sight of the man trying to get on the bike managed to cheer Sherlock up a little. Stanford looked very relieved when he discovered that the engine didn't start. 

When Stanford left Sherlock decided to label this plan to catch Watson as unsuccessful, and went home.


	10. Chapter 10

He dripped water all the way to the shower, leaving a trail of soaked clothes behind him on the floor. He put his phone on the sink, and looked himself in the mirror. The face staring back was wet, tired and had slightly blue lips.

With a sigh he stepped into the shower, turning on the hot water. It felt nice to let all his tensions and thoughts run down his body along with the water. Sherlock took a relaxing breath as he turned the shower off.

The next moment the shower curtain was pushed to the side. Sherlock acted instinctively and latched out, but his hands where caught by the wrists by a pair of hands. He was about to headbutt his assailant in the face, but suddenly noticed who's face it was.

"Watson!" he exclaimed, yanking his hands free and covering his groin. "Are you out of your mind? I thought you were Moran! I've could have hurt you!"

"Yeah, right," Watson huffed and threw him a towel. "Now you give me that spark plug or you'll know what real hurt is."

"No!" Sherlock tried to put as much authority he could in his voice, considering he was naked.

"No?" Watson looked him over as Sherlock wrapped the towel around his hips.

"Stop looking at my cock!"

"I'm not looking at your cock," Watson grabbed Sherlock's arm and handcuffed it to the shower rail. "I was looking at your arm."

"Hey!" Sherlock nearly dropped the towel.

"Fine! I'll find it myself then," Watson walked out of the bathroom. 

"Don't you dare touch my experiments!"

Sherlock could hear Watson rummaging around in the living room and kitchen.

"Christ! Are these human eyes?"

"Put those back!"

"They were in the microwave."

"It's an experiment!" yelled Sherlock.

There was a few more exclamations as Watson found fingers, toes, a pig's heart, bacteria growths, mould cultures, and dried blood in jars. 

"Do you even eat?" he called from the kitchen. 

"Boring," answered Sherlock, frowning at his cuffed hand, it was beginning to hurt. 

"I don't understand how you can live like this and still have the body you have."

"Was that a compliment?" Sherlock tried not to preen. "You could just have said 'Hey, Sherlock, you look good'."

"I can't bloody find anything in this mess!" Watson exclaimed. "Fuck!"

"Temper, Watson," said Sherlock, leaning against the shower wall. 

"You know, fuck this," Watson came back inside the bathroom. "Keep the bike! I don't care anymore. I give up."

"Really?" Sherlock frowned. 

"I'm taking the towel though," Watson grabbed the towel from Sherlock's hips and pulled it away. 

"Give that back!"

"Hey, Sherlock?" Watson said with a smirk, looking him over. "You look good." 

"Wanker," huffed Sherlock.

"Oh, soon," smiled Watson and left. 

Sherlock leaned back again. He was half hard. Who knew being handcuffed naked in the bathroom by a attractive man was going to be a turn on?

He considered calling for Mrs Hudson, but what did she know about breaking locks? 

Sherlock reached for his mobile on the sink.Who would he call? Mycroft was out of the question, his brother was two steps away from a incestuous crush as it was. Molly was defiantly out. Sherlock texted Lestrade.

_Handcuffed SH_

_Meeting GL_

_Naked SH_

_Ten minutes GL_

Sherlock leaned back and waited. He was going to be in so much debt with Lesteade for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite scene in the book! I hope I've done it justice.


	11. Chapter 11

"Aren't you getting over your head with this one?" asked Lestrade, freeing Sherlock from the shower rod. 

"No," Sherlock rubbed his wrist. "I can handle this."

"I can see that."

"Stop looking at my arse," grumbled Sherlock walking to his room. 

"Sorry," Lestrade shrugged, and didn't sound sorry at all. "Force of habit."

Watson had made a even worse mess of the flat than it had been before. Sherlock grabbed his robe and began looking over his experiments. A couple of them were ruined, but one had actually improved, which was interesting. He looked around for a pen. 

"So you found anything out yet?" asked Lestrade sitting down in Sherlock's favourite chair, which had the best view of the flat. 

"Watson had a informant," Sherlock talked while he put his experiments together again. "Her name was Carmen Roberts, worked at a S and M club. Her frequent customer was Seb Moran, a prize fighter. He abused her, but she was handsomely bought off by his manager to keep quiet. Carmen had a boyfriend, Zane Bradley, local lowlife and gambler."

"The guy Watson shot?"

"Carmen finds something important out about Moran and wants to tell Watson about it. She disappears. Watson looks for her, he then shoots the boyfriend dead. Now Watson is spying on Moran."

"He thinks Moran killed Carmen and hid the body."

"Most likely."

"Then why kill Bradley?"

"That's what I'm going to find out."

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen door with a measuring glass in his hand.

"Sherlock, not that I mind that much..." Lestrade shifted in his seat. "But your robe is open. 

"Stop looking at me," Sherlock wrapped the robe around himself. 

Lestrade just laughed, turned his palms up, and shrugged.

"I'm off," he said, getting up from the chair. "Call me if you get cuffed up and naked again. Preferably when I have more time on my hands."

"Erase those pictures!" Sherlock called after him.

"Not on your life!" Lestrade was already halfway down the stairs. 

Sherlock sighed and returned to tidying up, wishing that he had called Mrs Hudson instead. She didn't know how to use a camera phone. 

He settled in for the night with a book on motorbikes, feeling the need to update his memory banks, and not to be outdone by Lestrade again.


	12. Chapter 12

The early hours of the morning found him, fully dressed, outside on the stoop comparing parts the bike to the pictures in the book. Mrs Hudson brought him a cup of tea. 

"It's certainly a wicked ride, Sherlock," she said with a motherly smile. "But it is rather in the way of the entrance."

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson," said Sherlock taking a drink of the hot beverage. "I'll park it somewhere else tonight." 

"That nice hot man yesterday said you took it from him. Naughty of you, dear. That's no way to get a new boyfriend. Seems a bit too desperate if you ask me."

"You thought he was hot?" asked Sherlock getting to his feet. 

"Not as hot as your police friend, but he had a good arse on him."

Sherlock grinned at her. She gave him a wink, took the now empty cup, and handed him his shoulder bag. 

"Here, you left this downstairs last night."

"Thank you," Sherlock looked inside the bag. "I was afraid someone had taken it."

"No worries, dear," she smiled, and walked back into the house. "Now you go and get your man."

Sherlock smirked and got on the bike, he had already reattached the spark plug. He needed to gather some more clues. Watson was clearly on some kind of personal mission, and didn't want to be held up by the red tape of a murder charge so he had gone rogue. 

Sherlock knew a good case when he smelt it, and this was it. He needed to go to the scene if the crime. 

He drove the motorbike to Zane Bradley's apartment building. It was as much of a dump as the police pictures had showed. 

The police tape was still there when Sherlock reached the door. Without disturbing the tape he picked the lock, and slid inside. 

Large dry bloodstain on the floor, one shot in a major artery. Sherlock took a couple of pictures with his phone for later study.

The apartment was a lived in mess. There was little proof of Carmen there, but Sherlock guessed that she had a room back at the club. As he walked through to the messy kitchen he wondered what she ever had seen in Zane. Love was certainly blind.

He went over to the window, looking down on the street below. A car drove by, pretty distinctive, red orange with black stripes. It seemed familiar somehow...

"You shouldn't be here," said the voice if a child behind him. 

Sherlock turned around to see a small boy, about eight, standing in the doorframe. He was wearing a second-hand school uniform. 

"I work with the police," said Sherlock, looking the boy over. "Do you live next door?"

The boy nodded warily, glancing over his shoulder to the open door for a possible escape, or perhaps for someone who might be looking for him. 

"Did you see what happened here? When Zane got shot?"

"I heard the bang," said the boy, turning back to Sherlock. "I was in the kitchen with mom."

"I see," Sherlock sensed another dead end. 

"But Andy says he saw it."

"'Andy'?" 

The name was new. There was nothing like it, or close to it, in the files. Though, Sherlock thought, the there was a note of not all neighbours being present at the shooting. It was possible that they had missed someone. 

"Can you take me to Andy?" he asked.

"Are you going to arrest him?" asked the boy, frowning. 

"I just want to ask him some questions." Sherlock gave his kind smile, because the boy obviously counted this 'Andy' as a friend. "And I'm not the police."

The boy nodded, and gave Sherlock a sign to follow. They left the apartment and walked three doors down. There was no name on the mail slot, or anywhere else on the dirty door. Sherlock looked to the boy, but he was walking away. 

"What's your name?" he called after him.

"Billy," said the boy.

Sherlock knocked on the door. He already knew by the faint smell what he was going to find on the other side. 

A thin man in his twenties with slightly red-tinted eyes and hollow cheeks, looked out. Sherlock knew that look, he had seen variations of it in the reflexion of his own mirror plenty of times. Before his brother dragged him to rehab and gave him a job.   
The man was a drug addict, mainly marijuana cigarettes, obviously less hardcore than Sherlock had been. 

"Andy?" 

"Who are you?" the man grinned up at him, opening the door wide.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. Can I ask you a few questions about your neighbour Zane Bradley?"

"He's like dead, man," Andy shook his head and moved to the side to let Sherlock in.

"So I heard," he stepped passed into the living room.

"You want some?" Andy pointed to his sofa table where he, quite unembarrassingly, had a small production of joints going on. 

"Trying to quit," said Sherlock with his best humouring smile. "Did you see it?"

The room wasn't as bad as Sherlock had expected. It could actually be quite nice if you liked that kind of sixties hippie mixed with electric nightclub style, which he didn't. 

"It was like that guy, you know, that shot him."

"What did he look like?" 

"Like old, man," Andy laughed and held up a hand to indicate his own hight. "Like a copper."

"I see..." Sherlock nodded and thought that was a fair description of Watson. 

"The other guy was like slinky," Andy popped down on his sofa, continuing his rolling. 

"The other guy?" Sherlock blinked. 

"Yeah, he came out from Zane's after I bashed the copper on the head."

Sherlock was almost never surprised but this time he was, and just stared at the intoxicated man.


	13. Chapter 13

He drove the motorbike to Whitehall. His head was full of new thoughts. It was a bit hard to keep focus on the traffic. 

Andy had told, after a bit of prodding, that he had come home just as Watson had fired his gun. Andy had snuck behind Watson and hit him with a bottle on the head. In the confusion that followed a 'slinky' man had ran from Bradley's apartment. After this Andy had been so wired that he had taken a bit too much of his stash and passed out, avoiding the police.

Neither the file, the police, nor Watson had mentioned anyone else being there. This put things in a whole new perspective. 

Sherlock parked the motorbike next to Molly's car in the garage. Anthea was in the lift waiting for him. She was wearing a long black evening dress. 

"That must have been some party," said Sherlock. "And I see the Canadian ambassador's aid was hitting in you again."

"I'm not even going to pretend to know how you know that," smirked Anthea. 

"Dandruff," said Sherlock dusting her shoulder. 

"How are you coming with the Watson case?" She looked a little disgusted, and padded down her dress. "I heard he has evaded you a couple of times, and taken your gun." 

"I got his computer," Sherlock ignored the last bit and patted his bag. "And I got a new witness, and a new suspect. The neighbour said he had seen someone else there."

"Send me a email," Anthea nodded as Sherlock got off in his floor. "You can sign for a new gun in the armoury, if you promise not to give it to the suspect this time."

Sherlock gave her back a glare as she walked away.

Molly was in their office when he arrived back from the armoury with a small .22 in his bag. She was going through her paperwork, and smiled as Sherlock entered. 

"Hi!" she said. 

"Hello," Sherlock pulled up Watson's computer and placed it on his table. 

"I thought you were out looking for somebody."

"I am," said Sherlock as he started up the computer. "And I got a new lead."

"You always get new leads," said Molly admiring.

"But I think Watson is on to something, and I want to know what it is before I make any rash decisions."

He wrote a quick mail to Anthea where he gave Andy's description of the new suspect. Slinky, brownish hair, Watson's age and hight, and blue trousers. Sherlock smirked and sent the mail.

There weren't any classified material on Watson's private hard drive. The only thing of interest were some personal diary entries. Sherlock only glanced through them. It was simple day-to-day stuff, though quite well-written, and it told of a very lonely life. Sherlock almost felt sympathy, if not a bit of recognition.

He was just about to look at the Internet history when his phone chimed. Caller ID said Lestrade. 

"Hello?"

"Do you have a red flag case named Lewitt?" asked Lestrade.

"Possibly," said Sherlock slowly, he had pushed the red flags to the back of his mind. 

"I'm taking him in for questioning about a robbery. If you want to talk to him before the police, you better come with me." 

Sherlock really didn't want to, and the fact that the police was going to take Lewitt in only meant that the red flag was right. On the other hand, a lost interview meant boring paperwork. It would be best to take this, since the Watson case was taking more time than calculated. 

"I'm on my way," said Sherlock and hung up. "Molly, don't let anyone touch this."

"I won't," Molly smiled. 

Sherlock decided to take a cab this time, he didn't want to risk to be stuck with another naked passenger. 

He arrived to the apartment building fifteen minutes later. The area was just slightly better than Bradley's.There were no sight of any police cars, nor Lestrade. His phone dinged a message. 

'Five minutes, traffic. GL' 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He would have to do this himself. 

Mr. Lewitt lived on the first floor, door to the sidewalk. Sherlock stepped up, and rapidly knocked on the door. There was some shuffling inside. He knocked again. 

The door jabbed open, the security chain was on. A thin and scruffy man in his early fifties, disturbingly without a shirt, looked out through the gap. He was Sherlock's hight.

"What?!" huffed the man. 

"Mr. Lewitt. My name is Holmes. I would like to ask some questions about..."

"Piss off, pig!" 

Lewitt was about to slam the door, but Sherlock pushed his bag in the gap, preventing the door to close. Good thing he had left the laptop at the lab.

"Mr Lewitt, I'm not the police..." 

Lewitt grabbed hold of the bag, and pulled it inside. The door slammed. Sherlock thought of his gun that was in the bag, and knocked rapidly. 

Sherlock went over the area in his head, there would be a backdoor to the place. He began to run. He noticed in the corner of his eye the police cars arriving. This was a bit awkward. Lestrade hurried up to his  
pace. 

"What did you do?" the D.I. asked breathing.

"He took my bag," said Sherlock. "Backdoor."

He tried not to look at his friend as he turned the corner. In bypassing he noted the black striped red-orange car, but pushed it to the back of his head. They turned around another corner so they came up to the back of the building. 

Sherlock caught sight of Lewitt. A shot rang out, Lestrade grunted and stumbled. Sherlock acted in pure instinct and threw himself forward, colliding with Lewitt's bare torso and pushed him to the ground. 

"Greg?!" he called out, pulling his own gun from between Lewitt's fingers. 

"Bleeding hell!" grunted Lestrade, getting to his feet and hurrying up to Sherlock, handcuffs ready. "Got me right in the vest... Is that your gun?"

"Yes," Sherlock put the weapon in his pocket. "Sorry."

"Sorry, he says..." muttered Lestrade, cuffing Lewitt's hands. "Go and get your bag back, and please open the door for my men while you're at it."

Sherlock got up, still avoiding Lestrade's eyes. Two uniformed officers come ruining towards them, guns drawn. Lestrade makes a sign to them, and Sherlock hurried inside. 

His files scattered over the floor, he gathered them haphazardly in a few seconds and crammed them into the bag. There was a loose photograph of Watson that he placed in his inner pocket before opening the front door for the police. 

They looked at him as they entered but didn't ask what he is doing there, they have seen him before. Sherlock slipped out of the apartment to the sidewalk. He felt guilty about Lestrade, and his heart was racing. 

He called Molly as he quickly walked away from the scene.

"I screwed up," he said, and told her what had happened.

"Calm down," she said in a soothing voice. "Greg is alright, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock is breathing a little easier now. "But it was _my_ gun..."

"Have you eaten today?" Molly interrupted. 

"No."

"Then go get something," he can hear the smile in her voice. "You will feel better if you eat something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said goodbye. How can anyone think of food in a moment like this? He needs to distract himself with work. He needs to go ask Irene if she knows about that car, but first he has to stop by a store and find her a gift. 

He waived down a cab, and got in. 

"Harrods," he leaned back to the seat.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock arrived to the 'Leather and Lace' about an hour later. It's that time of day when the afternoon slowly is turning to evening. Since it is Friday the club is beginning to get busy. 

A woman dressed in tight leather was grinding herself acrobatically against a pole on a small stage. A waitress dressed as a sexy cowgirl was taking orders from a group of young men in suits. 

Sherlock sat down at the bar, placing his wrapped gift for Irene on the surface. He had no idea how to shop, least of all for a woman. She had said that she wanted a gift. He had settled for a pair of black leather gloves, he hoped she would like them, because he knew he liked his. 

The bartender gave him a irritate look and told him Irene was occupied with a guest for the moment. Sherlock said he would wait, and ordered a gin and tonic.

He sent out a text to Lestrade, asking of his health. Sherlock still felt bad about what happened. Even if the bullet had hit the vest, Lestrade would be bruised for a few days. He could feel the weight of the gun in his pocket, and shifted. A delicate hand was placed on his shoulder. 

"Mr. Holmes," Irene sat down beside him, with a smirk on her expertly made up face. "You just can't keep away, can you?"

She was wearing a black lace corset. Her dark hair was in a bun, but a lock had come loose and was hanging over the side of her face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. Sherlock noted her right shoulder was a bit stiff. 

"Good session?" he asked. 

"Excessively," Irene took the glass of water the bartender offered her.

"Your present," said Sherlock pushing over the wrapped up gloves..

Her eyes flashed with excitement as she looked at the Harrods sticker on the wrapping. 

"What would you like to know this time?" she asked while opening her gift. 

"Do you know a car, red-orange, black stripes..."

"Moran," Irene frowned. "Is he following you?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock thought back where he had seen the car elsewhere. 

"Oh," exclaimed Irene over her new gloves and stroked them over her cheek. "You are a good boy, aren't you?"

"I thought you liked them bad?"

"Some boys can be both," Irene put the left glove on. 

Sherlock smirked and answered his phone that was poking for his attendance. He looked at the ID.

"Lestrade?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Do you know a guy named Andrew Nilsson?"

"I know a Andy," Sherlock thought back on that morning. "Is he in trouble?"

"He is dead," said Lestrade, his voice from over the phone. "Took a nose dive out of his window. The response team found your card on him."

"I talked to him this morning about the Watson case," Sherlock frowned "But I didn't give him my card."

"Someone is sending you a message then," Lestrade didn't sound happy. "Be careful."

They hung up. Sherlock looked to Irene who was admiring her gloves. She made a hard fist so the leather squeaked. The next person she dominated would be in for a treat.

"I have to go," he got up from his chair. 

"Don't be a stranger," she gave his cheekbone a kiss. "I'm beginning to grow quite fond of you. And be careful."

Sherlock gave her a small smile, and left the club. He thought of going back to Whitehall, but changed his mind as he waived down a cab. It had been a eventful day and he needed time to think. 

"Two two one Baker Street," he said to the cabbie as he got in. 

He wasn't sure if he saw the red-orange car or not as the cab drove off. If he was to follow correct protocol he should ask for help. Sherlock was neither for protocol, nor for asking for help. 

As he got home he lay down on the sofa. He thought about Watson and the case. There must be something he had overlooked. There was no doubt in his mind that Moran had killed Andy. But he couldn't just accuse the man. 

Without concrete evidence Moran would go free. Also, Moran was the way to the man in Zane's flat, to Carmen, and to what ever important thing Carmen had wanted to tell Watson. 

Sherlock wasn't aware that he had gone to sleep before he was woken up in the early morning by a message on his phone. 

'Left you a gift faggot' 

There was the sound of a car speeding away outside. Sherlock hurried to the window, looking down to the street. There was a woman on the sidewalk. Irene. She looked badly beaten. Her short white dress was patterned in blood. 

"Damn," hissed Sherlock, hurried out of the flat, and down the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson! Call an ambulance!"

He ran outside, kneeling beside the woman. Her right eye was swollen and her left arm was oddly positioned. Sherlock could see it was broken. When she saw him she cried, and oddly laughed at the same time. It was a panicked sound.

"Don't worry, Irene," he held her carefully in his arms. "It will be alright. Mrs. Hudson!" 

The landlady appeared beside him in her nighty and morning robe. 

"I've called them," she said looking down at Irene. "Oh, dear me. Sweet child."

Sherlock was on the phone with Mycroft when the ambulance arrived. 

"You need to do something about this!" he shouted at his brother. 

"I will," affirmed Mycroft coldly, and hung up.

"Arse!" muttered Sherlock, and got into the ambulance after the gurney carrying Irene. 

Sherlock suddenly remembered the boy who had showed him to Andy's, Billy. There was a possibility that Andy had told the child something. They had been friends after all. 

He dialled Lestrade's number and got voice mail. He cursed and looked around as he listened to Lestrade's recorded voice.. The ambulance personnel and Irene was listening to his every word, though they tried not to show it. He had to play his cover. 

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock took a breath, choosing his words. "A client of mine has been attacked, most likely by the main suspect. I advice you to put a lookout outside the victim's building. A boy there, about eight, name of Billy, may be in danger."

He hung up, and looked to Irene.

"So I'm your client?" she asked with a cracked voice. 

"You are now," said Sherlock and patted her hand. 

They got to the hospital where Sherlock claimed to be Irene's brother to the receptionist, and got to be present while the doctor plastered her arm. 

"Good thing it wasn't my whipping hand," she said with a small smile on her cracked lower lip, and winced. "I really should get a new job."

"Excuse me," there was a irish voice and a knock on the doorframe of the examination room. 

"Mr. Moriarty?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

"Please, call me Jim," the fine tailored man stepped inside and placed a large bouquet of yellow flowers on Irene's lap. "I'm so, so sorry for what he's done. I can't believe the way he treats people."

"But that is what makes him a good fighter," said Sherlock sarcastically. 

The female doctor tending to Irene's arm shifted, but said nothing. 

"I will pay all the bills, of course," Moriarty continued. "I just ask you please to reconsider before pressing charges. He really can't afford another conviction. He will get disciplined for this, I promise."

"I think," said Sherlock in a firm voice. "As a professional in giving discipline, Miss Adler isn't impressed by that statement."

"I understand," Moriarty nodded. "But please," he looked to Irene who was hugging the flowers. "I ask you to think about it. I'll go and take care of the bills for you."

Moriarty left with a sympathetic smile. 

"That was nice of him," said Irene. "Load of crap, but nice." 

Sherlock smirked. 

"I need to go to work," he said, getting to his feet. "A friend of mine, Anthea, will bring a car to pick you up. She will take your statement." 

"Thank you," Irene smiled again, more genuine this time. 

They held hands for a moment, and then Sherlock left. He called Anthea while walking to hospital's taxi zone.

"Do you want us to take Moran in?" she asked. 

"Unfortunately not," sighed Sherlock getting into a cab, and telling the driver to go to Whitehall. "I believe he can lead us to a bigger fish, the one Watson is after."

He disconnected, and sat quietly thinking for the rest if the ride. First of all, he didn't trust that Moriarty was just looking out for his prizefighter. Second, Watson was definitely on to something. And thirdly, had be began to think of Irene as a friend?


	15. Chapter 15

In his office he collected Watson's computer and the motorbike helmet. Molly wasn't there but she had left him some autopsy leftovers in a carrier bag in the cold room. 

Sherlock drove the motorbike back to Baker Street. He made sure he parked it so it wouldn't be in the way of anything. 

As soon as he got inside the door he knew something was wrong. Someone was upstairs in his living room. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson, all signs pointed that she was out shopping. 

A cold spike of fear in his vertebrae told Sherlock that it could be Moran. He put his bag, helmet and carrier down, and pulled out his gun. Slowly he climbed the stairs. 

He opened the door with his foot. There was a man standing in front of the windows, pointing a gun back at Sherlock with a steady hand. 

"Watson." said Sherlock without lowering the gun. 

"Holmes," said his intruder, also with a steady aim. 

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock. "Going to cuff me to my shower again?"

"Not unless you you want me to," smirked Watson, slowly lowering his gun and raising his other, empty, hand. "I need your help."

"My help?" Sherlock put his gun down as well, but still kept it in his hand. "Why should I?"

"Look," Watson placed his gun in the sofa table, and showed both his hands. "Can we get something to eat? Talk this over over some food?"

Sherlock shrugged, he wasn't hungry, but he was interested what Watson had to say.

"Fine," he pocketed his gun. "There are takeout menus in the kitchen. You must have seen them the last time you ransacked the place." 

Watson gave him half a smile and walked to the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

He retrieved his things from the bottom of the stairs. Watson was ordering Chinese from one of the menus as Sherlock entered the kitchen with the carrier. 

"So tell me..." he said as Watson hung up the phone. "What is your story of events?" 

Watson took a breath. He was watching the severed hand inside the Tupperware Sherlock was placing on a shelf of the refrigerator. 

Molly had given Sherlock some good pieces this time. A couple of the boxes had notes attached to them, those were the ones that the results of any experiment had to be officially recorded. He placed them on a special shelf. 

"I think I understand why you are so thin," said Watson with slight disgust.

"You have seen much worse," said Sherlock, closing the refrigerator and putting the carrier away. 

"True, but not as clinical."

"Tell me about the case," Sherlock closed the refrigerator and folded his arms. 

Watson sighed and sat down by the kitchen table, on the seat by the microscope. 

"I was looking for Carmen, she's my informant, and she's missing."

"Were you a private client of hers?" asked Sherlock. "I know you don't frequent the 'Leather and Lace'."

"Not my kind of place. And no, I wasn't her client. We met on one of my missions a few years back. She was a call girl. I was sent to assassinate a customer of hers, and she helped me lure him to the right place away from the public. She has helped me in similar ways since."

"You helped her get the job at the club," deduced Sherlock. 

"My sister knows the owner. It's safer there than walking the streets," shrugged Watson."She contacted me because she was scared, and she wanted to tell me something. But I was out on a mission, and couldn't get back..."

"And after her disappearance you went to her boyfriend?" 

"Zane Bradley was a two bit thug, and a bad gambler," frowned Watson. "But he loved her. He pulled a gun on me, but before I noticed that it had jammed, I had already shot him in self-defence. And then I was hit in the back of my head by something..."

"No weapon was retrieved from the scene. There is no evidence to say that Bradley even owned a gun."

"I noticed that when I was accused of shooting an unarmed man," said Watson bitterly. "But if I had it I could perhaps prove it misfired."

"The slinky man must have taken it with him..." Sherlock tapped his lower lip with his forefinger. 

"'Slinky'?" Watson frowned again but was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. "That'll be the food."

Watson got up, pulled his hood up over his head and left the kitchen. There were footfalls on the stairs as he hurried down to the door. 

Sherlock moved to the living room, clearing a space on the table there. Watson must had retrieved his gun because it wasn't there. 

Watson came up with a plastic bag with square containers. Sherlock sat down in his chair, taking up his violin on his lap. 

"Continue," he said calmly, not showing that the smells of the food awoke slight feelings of hunger in him. 

"Wait, you said something about someone 'slinky'. What did you mean by that?"

"Don't you know what slinky means?" Sherlock, casually got up from his seat, while feigning total disinterest in the battered prawns. 

"Of course I know," grinned Watson offering him up a set of chopsticks. "It's someone like you, all lean and graceful and shit."

"I am not slinky. I have fine bones."

Sherlock pouted, and grabbed a prawn between his thumb and forefinger. He sat down beside Watson in the sofa. 

"Thought I was giving you a compliment. But I can't argue with you, Sugar. Your bones are very fine."

"You are drifting from subject," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Do you know a man like this? Looks like your age, brown hair."

"There is a guy working at the gym that might fit the bill. A part-time trainer of some sort. And agambler, like the rest of them."

"Do you think there is illegal gaming involved?" 

"Defiantly, but there is more to it than that. Perhaps drugs even."

Sherlock nodded his approval. He had thrown away his pretence and was eating chunks of rice right out of the box with his fingers. 

"Do you know how use chopsticks?"

"Of course i can! But those are too small for my hands."

"Fork?"

"Kitchen," he picked another prawn and bit into it.

"Never mind," Watson starred at Sherlock's mouth.

"You said you needed my help," 

"Hn? Yes! I mean... All clues I have leads me to Moran. I need you to draw him out."

"Draw him out?!" Sherlock huffed. "The man will bash my head in if I get close to him. He made very clear what he thinks of 'fags' in general, and me in particular."

"Sherlock," said Watson with a smug smile, using the name to Sherlock's face for the first in ten years. "Face it. You are not going to bring me in without my cooperation. If you help me I'll go quietly."

Sherlock looked at Watson, damning the man for being right. Also, Sherlock just really wanted to solve the case. He sighed. 

"Fine," he pouted, yanking the container of fried chicken from Watson. "I'll do it."

"I knew you couldn't resist me," Watson smirked in a flirtatious way.

"Dream on," Sherlock swore internally over his blush. "And go and take a bath, you stink like all your dirty hideouts. Towels are in the bathroom. There is an extra bedroom upstairs, you can sleep there tonight."

"Thank you," Watson got up from the sofa. 

"I just want to know where I have you. Now that we partners."

"Oh you can have me anywhere you want, partner," Watson winked as he closed the bathroom door. 

Sherlock huffed. Watson was the same flirt as always. And Sherlock was still that high functioning sociopath ex-coke-addict with a dangerous and powerful brother. It was better for Watson to continue staying clear of him.

Sherlock closed the food containers over the leftovers, and carried them to the kitchen. He debated with himself for a moment before moving some things around in the refrigerator, and placing the food on a now empty shelf. 

He was in his pyjama trousers when Watson emerged from the bathroom wearing only a towel. Sherlock looked at the man's left shoulder. The circular scarring hadn't been there ten years ago. 

"Light assault rifle," Sherlock took a step closer. "Shot in the back, through and through, tree surgeries, one with some tendon taken from your right thigh."

"Amazing," Watson rolled his shoulder. 

Sherlock shrugged, and avoided looking at the rest of Watson's body. Slightly tanned, little pudgy, but still strong and defined in the right places. He noticed that Watson's eyes had settled on his left arm. 

Sherlock placed his hand covering over the old scars of abuse and self-destruction, and turned away. 

"Good night," he said, leaving for his bedroom. 

"Night," Watson said slowly to his back.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock lay down on his bed. He wasn't tired, the energy of the meal was running through his nerves, and made them twitchy. The thought of having Watson sleeping on the other side of that roof he was staring up on, made sleep even harder to find. 

After a half an hour he couldn't stand the boredom and the turning around anymore. With a huff he got up from the bed and pulled on his favourite blue robe. 

He walked out to the living room and took up his violin. He chose a couple of slow lullabies so that the music wouldn't be too intrusive to his guest. 

Draining his regular repertoire, Sherlock moved on to mixing some of the songs together, then he made something up before he got bored. He sighed, putting the violin down. 

The rest of the night and early morning was spent with some of the new acquirements from Molly. Sherlock was engrossed in a small piece of shrivelled liver from a alcoholic under his microscope as Watson entered the kitchen. 

"Good morning." 

Watson was wearing only grey boxers and a white t-shirt. He was frowning at the literary bloody mess on the table. 

"I hope that isn't breakfast." 

"Not unless you want to try out cannibalism," said Sherlock without looking up. 

"I'll pass," said Watson moving over to the electric kettle by the sink. "Unless you are offering yourself, of course."

"I'll pass," Sherlock huffed, stood up and walked to the living room to jot down a few observations on his computer. "You can have the leftovers from yesterday."

"Lovely."

"What are we doing today?" asked Sherlock, returning to the kitchen to be presented with a hot cup of tea. 

"We are going to spy on Moran," leered Watson. "With this."

He held up a small electronic device that Sherlock immediately identified as a microphone and wire receiver. 

"Do you really think we can get him on tape?" asked Sherlock with a frown.

"It's also for your protection," said Watson disentangling the cord. "If I hear that you are in trouble I can come and save you."

"That makes me feel so much better." 

"Take off your t-shirt, I need to tape the microphone to your chest."

Sherlock grunted, but removed his robe and pulled the shirt over his head. He let them fall to the floor. 

Watson stepped behind him to tape the receiver to his back. He looked down on Watson as the shorter man moved around him attaching the wire with more surgical tape. Watson's fingers were warm and soft against his skin. 

He was sure that Watson didn't need to follow the wire so close with his fingers, and that the tape didn't meet so much stroking to stick to the skin. Sherlock could hear Watson's breath hike up as the microphone was attached just below his collarbone. He was sure the increased beating if his own heart was registering at Watson's fingertips. 

Watson looked up and their eyes met. There were standing so close... 

Someone knocked on the door downstairs. Sherlock breathed out, Watson took a step back. They looked away. The knock was heard again, this time louder. 

Sherlock grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. He could hear Mrs Hudson opening the door and directing the guest up the stairs. Watson ran to hide in Sherlock's bedroom.

The man entering the flat was not a stranger to Sherlock. His name was Anderson and he worked for the MI5, he was also a idiot and a right arse.

"What do you want?" glared Sherlock.

"I'm here to pick up a case," Anderson looked around the flat and seemed to find it lacking. "The Watson case."

"That's my case!"

"Not anymore," the man grinned moving around the living room. "The boss said that is mine now. Apparently it's too dangerous for the golden boy. Now give me the file before you break a nail."

"My nails are absolutely fine. They will tare your eyes out is you try to take my case. Now get the hell out!"

"I couldn't help but notice Watson's bike out there. You wouldn't know where he is now, would you? That would make this just so much easier."

"Why should I tell you?"

Anderson smirked, his eyes darting to the kitchen and the leftover takeout on the table. He then looked at Sherlock, but seemed to decide against saying anything by the murderous Sherlock gave him. 

"Never mind," he leered. "There are copies at HQ. I just came to tell you to stay out if my way, cause I am bringing Watson in, dead or alive."

He left with a final smirk. Sherlock had his mobile up before the descending steps even reached the front door. 

"Mycroft! You fat toad! When I tell you to do something I don't mean 'take the case away from me'!"

" _...message after the tone._ "

"Coward!" screamed Sherlock and hung up. 

Watson had come out from Sherlock's room and had walked over to the windows facing the street. Hiding behind the curtain he frowned. 

"I thought you were good at being observant," he said.

"What?" Sherlock was still steaming over ideas to overthrow the government. 

"He took my keys."

"What?!"

Sherlock hurried to the window. Outside on the street he could see Anderson straddle over Watson's motorcycle. Sherlock gritted his teeth and pushed open the window.

"Wanker!" he screamed, his deep and powerful voice made every person in the street turn to look up at him. 

Anderson gave him a sign of two fingers, and turned the key. 

The next moment the bike exploded in a loud bang of fire. The window glass shook but stayed intact. Sherlock was pulled away from the open window and then pushed down to the floor with a heavy body on top of him.

"Bloody hell!" said the heavy body. "My bike! I'm going to kill them!"

"You can get off me now," breathed Sherlock.

It was a sign to the seriousness of the situation that Watson didn't turn his words to a sexual innuendo.


	17. Chapter 17

"Mycroft was just worried about you," said Greg. "He didn't want you to get hurt." 

"I'm sure that Anderson will be very happy to hear that," Sherlock huffed.

They looked over to the coroner's car in which Anderson's body just had been placed, most of it anyway. The scattered pieces of motorbike were being assembled by the bomb technicians. 

Watson had left through Mrs Hudson's backdoor and driven away in a rental van to avoid the police. He had not been happy over the exploded motorbike.

"That could have been you," noted Greg.

"This ups the game," said Sherlock.

"I'll say," Greg shook his head at the mess. "Your suspect is now wanted for first degree murder and vandalism."

"Hmm..."

"You have a suspect, right? One that's not Watson?"

"How do you know it wasn't him?" indulged Sherlock. 

"I'm not stupid, you know. Watson loved that bike. And from what I heard and read about him, he seems to be a really decent guy, and up until this a loyal agent."

"He is a wanker," muttered Sherlock, though he admitted that Watson's first instinct to the explosion was to protect him was a bit flattering.

"Sherlock," sighed Greg. "Come off it. He was twenty-nine years old and was training to be sent off to war. You were twenty-three and had just gotten out of rehab. It would never have worked out between you."

"Who told you?"

"You forget I work at MI5 too, I hear the gossip. More than you, since I actually talk to people."

"Mycroft told you."

"Perhaps," winked Greg. "Now hurry up and clean this mess away, so i don't have to. Call me if you need backup."

"Sir?" A young uniformed policewoman approached them. "There has been a firebombing. That address you you were monitoring..."

"Bradley's flat?" frowned Sherlock. "How's the neighbour's boy?"

"No one reported injured, sir," said the uniform. 

"I had him and his mother moved to a safe location after your message yesterday," Lestrade was pushing numbers on his phone. "They should be fine. I'll give you a lift."

Sherlock nodded and let Lestrade lead him to a unmarked police car. 

Lestrade cleared him to pass the fire fighters and the assembled law enforcement. Sherlock felt a bit queasy over the burned smell, but that was only because he had his own misfortunes with experiments on fire in the past. 

The entire crime scene was burned. The bomb, something that would have resembled a Molotov, had been thrown through the window and put the shabby sofa aflame. Sherlock had to explain this two times to the idiotic forensic team, pointing out different kinds of glass to them.

He then nodded to Lestrade before leaving, there was nothing for him to do there. Lestrade made a gesture of holding a phone to his ear, asking Sherlock to stay in touch.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to his friend and left the building. On his way out his mobile chimed.

"Hello?"

"It's me," said Watson's voice. "Where are you?" 

"Bradley's flat. It's burned down." 

"I'm turning the microphone on now. I can hear you, but you can't reach me. I'm throwing this mobile away."

Sherlock felt relieved that Watson hasn't heard his and Lestrade's earlier conversation. He looked around as he exited the burned building, no one was following him.

"You need to stay within a two kilometre radius to get a good signal on this equipment."

"I'll stay on your sweet tail, sugar." 

"I don't care for your pointless flirting."

"Oh, it has a good point."

"Wanker," Sherlock huffed and summoned a cab. "I need a new perspective on this case, time is running out..." 

"Good luck," said Watson, then there was a sound like the mobile breaking before the line went dead.

He sat quiet for a moment, thinking, and listening to his own heartbeat. Watson must be hearing those heartbeats as well through the wire. The time on this case was running out. He needed a new perspective. 

"Where to, gov?" asked the cabbie with a slightly irritated voice.

"Whitehall," said Sherlock, he would also need to use Molly's car again. 

"Sure, gov," the cabbie edged into the traffic. 

Sherlock thought of Christophe, the chef slash suitor, telling him about the waiter who had been friends with Zane Bradley. Maybe a small talk with him would reveal something new. 

Molly wasn't in their office, but her car keys were. He helped himself to the keys and accordingly the cramped blue Mini Cooper.


	18. Chapter 18

The Garland was actually quite nice, for a four star restaurant. Christophe, dressed in his white chef outfit, was out on the floor, talking to some guests. Sherlock put on his second best pleasant air.

"Sherlock," grinned Christophe approaching him with open arms, bypassing the hostess. "You want a table? On the house of course."

Sherlock was tempted to take up the offer just to order something expensive and not eat it. But he had already figured out that 'on the house' didn't mean he would get the meal for free. He had not come to the point of soliciting himself for food just yet.

"I'm here to speak to the waiter you mentioned," said Sherlock. "He who was friend with the dead man."

"It's his day off, I'm afraid," Christophe shook his head, and then he leered. "Why don't you talk to me? This evening? After closing? I can whip you up something good?" 

Sherlock could almost sense Watson laughing on the other side of the receiver. He glanced around the restaurant for a escape. Then he saw, behind the bar, a delivery man. 

Short, in his forties, brown hair, and slinky. It could be a coincidence, but it was too good to pass. 

"That deliveryman," he asked. "Is he also friends with your waiter?"

"Yes, I think so," Christophe frowned. "He really shouldn't be behind the bar were gusts can see him, though."

"Excuse me."

Without another look or word to Christophe he left the restaurant. There was a large delivery van on the curb. The back was open, and Sherlock could see several barrels inside that didn't look like they contained beer. 

"I hope you are hearing me, Watson. I've just seen what I think is our slinky suspect. I'm going to follow him."

Sherlock hurried to get Molly's car, and put it in a position to follow. He saw the slinky man exit the side door of the restaurant. 

The man wore well-used trainers on his feet, and, despite the damned slinkiness, carried his shoulders like a boxer, which made Sherlock even more confident that he had the right guy. 

The deliveryman stopped abruptly just before he was about to enter the truck, pulled out a mobile out of his back pocket, looked at it, and put it to his ear. 

"He just got a phone call," said Sherlock. "I can't see his lips, but he looks nervous. He's getting into the truck. I'm following him."

Darkness was slowly beginning to fall. Sherlock meticulously narrated the way out of the city to the microphone. Partly because he had a feeling that Watson had lost them in traffic, and partly because he knew it would annoy the man. 

"I think we are heading for some place by the river," said Sherlock after about half an hour. "Probably a boat... Or a dumping ground... Or both..."

The truck turned on to a smaller road. There was only a run-down marina further down, so Sherlock passed it and parked the Mini behind an old wreck of a house. 

"I'm getting out of the car," Sherlock grunted as he untangled his long, aching, legs from under the low dashboard. "The truck is parked..."

He stopped. The house wasn't as much of a wreck as it appeared to be. One of the hinges on the door was newer than the other, and, as he moved closer, he saw a thick black electrical cord down to the marina. 

Sherlock took his bag over his shoulder, all thoughts of talking to Watson pushed to the back of his mind. He picked the lock easily. 

The house was empty, except for some very simple furniture. There were some traces of white powder on the wooden table. Sherlock's gut curled at the sight. 

Pushing the addict part of his brain aside, and turning on the scientist, he reached out to touch the powder. Only to be violently jerked backwards by two strong arms. 

Sherlock was about to jab the man in the gut, when he recognised Watson's hissing voice. 

"Don't touch that!"

"I assure you," Sherlock wretched himself free. "I think have a little more self control than the urge to lick uncut heroin from the cracks of an old dirty table!"

Watson had the decency to look a little embarrassed. 

"And stop sneaking up on me," huffed Sherlock taking up his penknife and a small plastic sampling bag from his bag. "I could have hurt you."

"Sugar," smiled Watson, regaining his attitude problems. "I don't think you can get the drop on me."

Sherlock was about to explain just what Watson could drop, when a loud gunshot was heard from outside. 

John immediately pulled his own gun and hurried to the door. 

"It came from the truck!" said Sherlock as they began to run towards it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not long to go now...
> 
> Sorry for mixing British and American, but I'm writing this whole thing on my phone and am to lazy to go back and change stuff.


	19. Chapter 19

The small lights in the back storage were on. There were several empty plastic crates and old beer barrels. There was also the bigger oil-barrel that Sherlock had seen before. 

There was also the slinky man with a bullet hole in his fire head. Sherlock fought the urge to take pictures. 

"I'm calling Lestrade," he said, reluctantly bypassing his photo app for the dial button.

"Who is that?"

"My police contact," Sherlock knew better than to blow a friend's cover.

"No!" Watson grabbed the phone away. "No police! Now, keep an eye out while I check this thing out."

Sherlock bit back an insult, but he knew that the person that shot 'Slinky' wasn't too far away. 

Watson managed to open the oil barrel. He gasped in disgust, moving quickly backwards. The distinctive smell told Sherlock all he needed to know, again he wished he could take pictures.

"Putrefied body, small space, untight container, approximate three days..." He turned to look closer. "Are there maggots?"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" screamed Watson. 

Sherlock ignored the question. It was clearly rhetorical, and he had heard it, and the answers to it, plenty of times before. 

"Going by facial structure and hair, it's Carmen Roberts. They were going to dump her in the river..."

"What?" Watson looked up at him, but was cued into the situation by the cocking of a gun from behind him. "Oh. Is it Moran?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, rising his hands. 

"Drop it," hissed Moran. "And get down here."

Watson dropped his gun. He slowly climbed down from the truck.

"You too Tinkerbell," Moran looked to Sherlock. "Or your faghead boyfriend here gets it."

"Actually," said Watson taking the advantage of the small distraction to punch the gun out of Moran's grip. "That was quite rude."

The gun flew in an arch away from them, which left them both unarmed. Watson looked quite pleased with himself, before it dawned in him that he was facing a tall heavyweight prizefighter with no morals. Moran grinned.

"Sherlock!" Watson called as Moran lunged for him. "Do something!"

"What do you suggest?" 

Sherlock was appeasing Moran's fighting style for an intervention. Again it was clear that his weakness was in his knees, there also seemed to be a new minor injury on his right side by the way he as holding himself. Watson was putting up a good resistance, but with his bad shoulder and smaller muscular frame he was bound to lose. 

"Oh," Sherlock felt his pocket. "I still have the gun." 

Watson grunted as he got hit on the face, his eyebrow was cut open and started bleeding. Moran almost had him in a vicious headlock. Watson moved abruptly, trying to break free. 

"Stop moving around so much," called Sherlock as he couldn't get a clear line of fire. 

"Fucking... take the shot," grunted Watson painfully as he was fisted in the gut.

"Oh, screw it," Sherlock huffed and threw the gun at Moran, it hit the man on the left arm. 

There was a short moment of confused surprise as both Moran and Watson just stared at Sherlock. Then Moran threw Watson aside like a rag doll and ran towards Sherlock with a roar. 

Sherlock stepped to the side, went low, smashed a fist to Moran's left knee, and then another fist to the right side. He moved forward and upwards, cracking Moran's nose with a headbutt, aiming for the other knee with a kick, and finally toppling the large man over with a hard push to the chest. Moran was unconscious on the ground. 

Sherlock adjusted his hair out if his face, and turned to Watson. 

"What just happened?" the shorter man breathed, pressing his sleeve against his bleeding eyebrow. "Did you just... throw your gun at him? You _threw_ your gun at him?!"

"I could have hit you," shrugged Sherlock, rather disappointed that Watson hadn't acknowledged his fighting skills. "I'm not that good of a shot."

"For fuck's sake..." Watson gave Moran a once over. "He's going to be out for a while."

"Can I call Lestrade now?" pouted Sherlock taking up his small gun from the ground.

"No," Watson resolutely took the gun from him and put in his back pocket. "I'll load him in the truck. You go and find the gun."

Sherlock gave Watson his best glare, but didn't get any response. He sighed, and started mapping out a search grid in his head based on different trajectories with the help of the small flashlight he always carried with him.

He saw Moran's gun on the ground not far off. But before he had gotten to it, someone else had grabbed it. Sherlock aimed the flashlight at the new person.

"Mr Moriarty?" Sherlock hesitated.

Moriarty gave a small creepy smile and raised the gun with a sure hand. 

"Mr Holmes. Drop the light. Put your hands in your head."

"I suspected it was you," Sherlock complied. "You are too a good of an actor." 

The flashlight was still giving some luminance to the situation from the ground, making the shadows strange. Sherlock couldn't appraise any weaknesses in the other man, with made him slightly worried. 

"Thank you," Moriarty pointed with the gun. "Now move."

They walked slowly to the back of the truck. Watson had placed Moran on the floor next to the barrel. 

"Sherlock..." he began, but then fell silent at the sight of Moriarty and the gun. 

"Surprise," smirked Moriarty, pointed the gun at Sherlock's head, and took out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Throw our your gun please."

"Fuck," swore Watson, but did drop his gun to the ground outside the truck. 

"Mr. Holmes would you please cuff your friend?"

He threw the cuffs to Sherlock who caught them.

"A bit steep isn't it?" said Sherlock, climbing up to the platform. "Going from rigging prizefights to smuggling drugs?"

"It was all that idiot Zane's fault," growled Moriarty. "He had a contact."

"And you took it over," nodded Sherlock as he cuffed Watson tightly to a handle on the wall, slowly slipping the small gun from the back pocket. 

"But then Carmen found out," said Watson in a butter voice.

"The bitch called you," Moriarty pointed the gun at Watson. 

Sherlock slowly moved closer, the gun hidden in his palm. 

"Sit down!" Moriarty changed his attention to Sherlock. "And slide the gun over here."

Sherlock cursed inwardly but did as he was told, pushing the gun towards the edge of the platform. It lay there, tantalising, in the soft light.

"Now," Moriarty moved slightly to look at Moran. "We are going to wait until my boy here wakes. In sure he will be in the mood to rough you both up something good."

"You..." Sherlock took a breath, faking fear to sip into his voice. "You are going to let him kill us, then shoot him, and pin the whole thing in him."

"I'm a regular hero." 

Moriarty was about to say something else, but Sherlock wobbled a bit, placing his hand over his mouth as if to stop himself from vomiting. 

"Don't try to..." began Moriarty, but was cut off because Sherlock was trying something. 

He made a fake move for Moriarty, who took a surprised step to the side, and then dived for the small gun at the edge of the platform. Moriarty fired three shots, two hitting a plastic crate that shattered with glass and beer.

"Sherlock!" screamed Watson.

Sherlock got hold of the gun, firing five shoots in rapid succession until it clicked. Moriarty fell backwards, bullet holes in his chest. 

"Uh," grunted Sherlock as he sensed a painful throbbing on the top of right thigh, his arse in fact.

"Sherlock?" Watson sounded concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Dandy," Sherlock managed to turn himself around and slip of the platform, steadying his feet on the ground. "He shoot me in the arse."

"Shame," Watson smirked. "But I'm sure it's still a good working arse. Now come help me off with these."

Sherlock looked the scene over. Truck, dead slinky man, dead woman in a barrel, unconscious prizefighter, broken beer bottles, and a John Watson handcuffed to it. He smirked. 

"Sherlock," Watson's eyes narrowed as he understood what was going on. "Don't you fucking...."

With a slam Sherlock had closed the backdoors. Watson's roar of anger was impressive, so was the kicking on the walls. Sherlock just giggled, and pulled up his phone that he had retrieved from Watson at the same time as the gun.

"Brother dear?" he said in the calm tone he knew Mycroft hated. "I got three corpses, one very pissed of John Watson, and a bullet in my arse. Please send assistance."


	20. Epilogue

"Not bad shooting," said Lesteade. 

He had just delivered Sherlock from the hospital to Mycroft's office. The elder Holmes was insisting on them finishing off the paperwork as quick as possible. Lestrade was looking over the photos of Moriarty's body. 

"Didn't think you had it in you."

"I only needed good motivation."

Sherlock was sitting cross legged on a soft chair and filling in on the Watson case file on his lap with a pencil. Anthea was standing next to him like a spell-checking hawk, not that he spelled something wrong.

"Like a pain in your arse?" she asked.

Mycroft, who was pretending ignore them gave a subtle snort. 

"Watson was of no help what so ever."

Both Mycroft and Lestrade giggled. Sherlock and Anthea smirked.

"Tell me about the Zane Bradley shooting," said Lestrade looking over his own report. "That part wasn't on any of the transcripts i got, nor notes. Watson seemed at a loss too when I talked to him."

"I'm writing it down now," Sherlock didn't stop to write as he talked. "With Carmen gone, Zane began asking questions about her..."

"So he threatened to expose Moriarty, even though the drugs had been his own idea in the first place?"

"Yes, it might have been Bradley's idea from the start, but Moriarty had the brains and brawns."

"Moran," Mycroft commented, not pretending to be uninterested anymore. 

"Correct," Sherlock nodded. "'Slinky' was sent to kill Bradley, but Watson interrupted it. Bradley's gun jammed, it was probably tampered with. Watson shot him. Andy hits Watson in the head and goes to get stoned. 'Slinky' takes Bradley's gun and leaves. Watson gets accused of killing an unarmed man."

"Impressive."

"Meticulous," Sherlock shrugged, and looked Anthea over. "You have a date."

"It's the lipstick, isn't it?" she gave him an amused glare. 

"And the lace bra." 

All eyes were momentarily turned to her chest, she was wearing a grey silk blouse, revealing noting of her underwear. 

"Irene will love it," Sherlock winked, and closed the file. "Finished."

He got to his feet and gave the papers to Anthea. Though the secretive smile on her lips, she avoided his eyes, and began sorting the papers. 

"Good," Mycroft said, clearing his throat. "This will clear Watson quickly, and he'll be back on active duty after his rest." 

Sherlock had been moving to leave his brother's office, but halted with his hand on the doorknob. 

"Rest?" he asked. "He is out now?"

"He isn't a flight risk," Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "And your testimony just cleared him of charges."

Sherlock actually felt scared. Watson hasn't been happy about being locked up in the back of a truck with two dead people and a unconscious dangerous man. If the police hadn't held Watson back, Sherlock would be sporting a black eye. 

He gave the small group a quick look, they were all smirking knowingly at him. 

"Fine," he said, pushing back his shoulders. "Good for him,"

Sherlock knew they were laughing at him as he left the room. 

Carefully he walked to the lifts. He thought it would be better to hide in his office for a while, and do some experiments, maybe a week. Molly could provide him with tea if necessary. 

Before the sliding doors had the to close though, a hand got in between them. Sherlock moved to the back of the cabin when Watson stepped inside the lift. The shorter man was grinning. 

"So I hear we are going to team up," he said.

"We are?" Sherlock frowned.

"You better believe it, sugar. Just got message from your brother."

"That fat bastard," muttered Sherlock under his breath. 

"He also mentioned something about me helping you to find a new kitchen table," Watson stepped closer. "Do you know what he was talking about?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it :)
> 
> Hope you have enjoyed the show, though I'm sure my grammar is living it's own life, as usual.
> 
> Thank you!!!


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